


Monuments in Ash

by Notaricon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Kink Meme, M/M, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Purple Prose, Qunari, Qunari Physiology, Qunlat, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notaricon/pseuds/Notaricon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Shanedan. I will hear you.</i>
</p><p>The Arishok demands sex in exchange for Isabela. Unrepentant porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monuments in Ash

_Shanedan. I will hear you._  
   
Under a gaze like polished stone, he had drawn his twin blades and submitted himself to a demand of the Qun. Honour was to be proven and upheld; honour was the right to stand uncowed. It was the right to speak and be heard.  
   
It was with the blood of the dead still bright-hot on his hands and lips that Hawke had stood before the Arishok. It had been him alone amid the sea of shivering, soft-skinned nobles who had known to curb the warrior’s ire by taking hold of it. Honour could only be met by honour.  
   
Thus it was that he refused the Arishok’s demands.  
   
“You’ve said that you will hear me. This thief has undergone trials to right her wrongs; I’ve watched her do it. And,” he had stepped forward, into the slant of dusty, milky light under which the Arishok stood, “the Qunari do not abandon their debts.”  
   
The Arishok growled like the deep-earth rumblings at the heart of a mountain. When he moved to meet this most worthy of opponents, he spoke in hushed tones, his voice the heady, heavy black of wet loam. “You're saying that I am beholden to this _bas_ , Hawke?”  
   
Hawke didn’t flinch when the giant bent to butt a horned brow against his own in unspoken challenge. He didn’t look away from that cold, steady gaze. “Let me finish. The Qunari do not abandon their debts. Let her keep hers.”  
   
The Arishok’s breath came as a curt hiss, ticklish and scalding against his lips and chin.  
   
“Penance must be given.”  
   
“Is she worthy of giving it?”  
   
The Qunari straightened, the twitch of his brows so minute that Hawke almost mistook it for the shifting of shadows across the broad, flat plains of his face. For one trembling moment the air had rung with silence.  
   
And then.  
   
“No.” One word, like the distant crack of thunder. The sere light slithered across the Arishok’s skin like crude iron as he lifted his head to take in the scene around them. When he turned the cold, pale gold of his eyes upon Hawke once more, there was no reading the intent within them.  “But you are.”  
   
The Arishok spread his arms, looking every bit the heathen god-king with his weapons clasped in hand, the pale, dying sun at his back. He let them clatter heavily to the floor, and all around them there was a susurration of wonder and fear. Hawke followed suit, tossing his daggers aside. Dimly, he heard Varric’s concerned _tsk_ and the low murmur of Isabela’s complaints as they were corralled away from him.

“What would satisfy you, then?” Hawke asked.  
   
In all of a moment, the giant brought Hawke to his knees, crouching to regard him like a ponderous gargoyle. Deft claws traced the lines of his shoulders, his neck, his jaw.  
   
“You,” he rumbled, the pitch tones of his voice seeding an electric itch beneath Hawke’s skin. To speak and be heard was to be honoured. To give and be taken was to reach an accord. Hawke required no further explanation. The Arishok would not offer it.  
   
“That’s quite the vote of confidence.” The barbed tip of a talon sketched a tight, patient circle along the curve of his upper lip, the plush swell of the lower, leaving a faint, disquieting buzz in its wake.  
   
“I know.” The massive creature cocked his shaggy head, snarling something in the language of the Qun to the attentive, stone-faced soldiers around them. As they moved to stand in the lean shadows cast by the throne room’s pillars, the Arishok turned his unwavering stare upon Hawke once more, silent and intent. Waiting.  
   
Hawke’s blood began to quicken. He licked his lips, catching glimpses of Varric gesturing broadly from his place behind the sturdy body of a frowning Karasten. Isabela stooped to shush him, watching the exchange with a fierce gleam in her eye.  
   
To reach an accord was to submit without submitting. “In that case,” he wet his lips again. “You will have me.”  
   
He was on his back before he could blink, clawed fingers knotted in his hair, pulling his head back to expose the tender skin of his throat. The nobles erupted into a confusion of shouts and muttering which was swiftly silenced. With the flickering of heated breath against his neck came the bone-rattling vibration of words spoken in an even growl; words he did not understand.  
   
A rough tongue curled to scent and taste the salt of his sweat, a hard mouth sealing its lips over the wild thundering of his pulse. He couldn’t quite help the liquid groan that bubbled past his lips when that tongue sluiced a snaking, wet path up along the tendons of his neck, rasping over the line of his jaw to slide hot and slick over the whorls of his ear. A deep vibration buzzed against his chest and belly.  
   
Hawke didn’t quite know what to do with the notion that the great Arishok of the Qunari _purred_. From the furious murmuring all around them, neither did the nobles. 

* * *

* * *

Hawke sprawled, naked and chilled, across the lush red carpet that streaked the Viscount’s throne room. The Arishok crouched over him, the leathers he wore messily unlaced, his heavy erection still wet from the workings of Hawke’s mouth upon him. He had thrust into it slowly, his pace measured and patient and unwavering, kneeling astride the man’s chest, fingers tangled in his dark, fly-away hair. Nearby, one of the Karasten had struck the back of a fleeing noble’s head with the butt of a spear.   
   
The giant had tasted like salt and resin, musk and damp ash. He had gripped Hawke’s thighs, his claws like spurs against the ticklish skin, bending them back until his knees touched his shoulders and stooping to lap at the fragile, exposed flesh that nestled just behind his tightening balls. Hawke was writhing and swollen long before he stopped. He shuddered under the feathering heat of the Arishok’s breath, clasping the backs of his knees when those massive, battle-hardened hands drifted to spread him open.  
   
He squirmed under the weight of the gaze on him, the talon tracing that same, familiar prickling circle around the twitching, flushed pucker those hands had exposed. He nearly came when the giant looming over him dipped his head to plunge that thick tongue into him, but for the fingers which firmly circled his throbbing cock and balls. Viscous strands of saliva rolled to tickle the creases of Hawke’s thighs, a wet ache dripping to pool within him.  
   
He no longer cared for the self-concerned tittering of the nobles, or the hushed murmuring of his companions. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the plush carpet beneath him when the Arishok growled wordlessly and lifted his horned head, taking Hawke’s hips in hand. Brusquely, he fished a vial from his belt, popping it open with his thumb and drizzling thin, clear oil into Hawke's open cleft.  
   
“Do not finish until I command, _basra_.” In one maddeningly long stroke, the creature entered him, never once pausing or faltering. The thick bulk of him stretched Hawke until all he could feel was the deep-seated, dull hurt that throbbed deliciously hot inside him -- it was too much, too much, he was too achingly full. His sac and thighs had already begun to tighten and become heavy.  
   
And then, the Arishok began to move. He rocked into Hawke, his thrusts steady and firm and driving the man under him into a snarling, wriggling fit. Prohibitive fingers circled and cinched down on Hawke whenever he shudderingly neared his peak, again and again, leaving his cock oozing and angry red where it bounced against the flat plane of his belly.  
   
Hawke arched like a bow, head thrown back and giving voice to a long, wavering moan. So many times, he’d nearly spilled himself only to be silently denied that it was nearly painful to feel the pressure budding just beneath the slick, exposed head of his cock. He nearly didn’t hear the low growl of the Arishok’s command, so intent was he upon the moist friction conjured by the thick shaft sliding in and out of him.  
   
“ _Now, basra_ ,” the giant repeated, punctuating his statement with a pointed snap of his hips, his leathers scraping the raw skin of Hawke’s buttocks. Hawke choked on a scream; one, two, three hard thrusts driving him ever closer to his end. The sound of flesh slapping wetly against flesh brought him over, a blossoming heat bursting in his twitching balls, boiling up out of him in thick, ropy, jerking spurts, his body clenching and milking at the cock buried in him. He grunted softly when the Arishok slipped out of him, his issue dribbling a scalding trail to stain the fine carpet beneath them.

* * *

* * *

Isabela sat back, booted heels propped up atop the splintered, ale-stained table. Her eyes sparkled indecently. 

"Well?” she prompted.  
   
Varric massaged his temples. “Rivaini. Even I couldn’t get away with putting _that_ in Hawke’s biography.”  
   
“But if some anonymous author were to publish it as an... _unofficial addition_?”  
   
Varric grinned over the rim of his mug. “If someone were to do that, Rivaini,” he hefted his drink in a jaunty toast which Isabela met from across the table. “Well. That someone would probably make _quite_ a profit.”


End file.
